


Run Rabbit Run

by HomeAgain



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Blood and Violence, Bunny Bertolt, Cop Marcel, Emotional Hurt, Exhibitionism, Exploration of Noir Crime Genre, F/F, F/M, Gang Violence, Gore, Gun Violence, M/M, Mob Boss Reiner, Police Commissioner Yaeger, Prostitution, Sexual Harrassment, Slow Burn, Yakuza Boss Zeke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:13:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8290496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomeAgain/pseuds/HomeAgain
Summary: A bunny waiter falls in love with a mob boss. In a shitty casino in Nevada, Bertolt learns to find acceptance. An exploration of the crime noir genre.





	1. Prolouge: A Rabbit in the Desert

**Author's Note:**

> For my friends. Takes place in an imaginary city in Nevada

15 miles from the nearest city, Bertolt Hoover tries to clear his mind.

He looks out at the Montelago desert, yellow clay sand a gray purple as the sun slowly sets in the horizon. Yellow Mexican poppy and blue wildflowers dot the landscape. Black thistle grows wild wherever, darker where it reaches the edge of the Bush Mountain, the stone face red specked with white indentations. Pynchon County lays behind that mountain and before that Montelago, which intersects with Highway 35.

Montelago, Bertolt thinks.

Marcel’s town.

Reiner’s town.                                  

_Reiner._

_Home._                                                                       

Bertolt breath hitches as he pushes himself forward.

He takes in the desert: a little brown lizard scurries underfoot, the lonely cry of a chicken hawk echoes in the skies—and he listens to the sound of his own breath. His thighs burn. Sweat drips down his face, the tip of his nose, and his feet throb, but his breathing is steady and regular.

Run. Run. _Run._

He knows Reiner will find him.

Reiner always finds him.        

Sometimes he imagines that Reiner will show up at his too small apartment at the Santé Puente, his one bedroom dump with a broken deadbolt and ugly green doors. Sometimes he daydreams that Reiner will come to him at work, sitting quietly in the back booth with his men before asking him for a drink and quietly palming his ass. Bertolt pictures Reiner would laugh at him like he always would. But the booth is empty, has been for a while and the city is peaceful and quieter than it ever has been.

The people cheer and walk down the streets at night again.

There is no mob in Montelago.

Bertolt wonders how long someone can imagine something before it comes to haunt them.

It’s been six months. Marcel tells him Reiner is too stubborn to stay away for long and too much of a creep to stay away from him. Marcel could use his police contacts to find him, Bertolt has thought more than once. He has been tempted to ask, but he knows that he has abused Marcel’s trust for far too long. There’s only so much you can forgive someone.

Bertolt breathes through his nose. He stops and catches his breath. 20 miles now. He usually stops around here and turns back. Marcel looks for him otherwise. He turns to look at the intersection, the stars coming out and shining against the bright, gaudy lights of Montelago. It’s a casino town, a hick town, a sin in the middle of nowhere, but it's home. They say that the people of Montelago never leave, but the most important one left and the city sins like a child, and not a man ever since.

A few cars pass by. Some drivers look at him, most don’t. Then a black dodge cop car comes around the hill in the distance—Montelago Police, not Pynchon County. The sirens do not blare. He knows the car almost as well as the owner. He runs his sweaty palms on the edge of his shorts. He knows that Marcel will chew him out for staying out late.

_'It’s dangerous here.'_

But there’s not any crime now, not since Reiner left.

“Marcel! Hey Marcel!” He calls out, out of habit or loneliness, he’s not sure.  He waves and tries to force a smile. That is for Marcel, he knows. Marcel worries about him, for him, and it has only gotten worse in recent days. He doesn’t want to think what Marcel thinks of him right now, but comforts himself in the idea that if he plays along, he never will.

Bertolt jogs to the end of the street coming closer to the car, but then the car crosses into the sand, straight for him and cuts right through the brush.

Bertolt stops, his hand dangling loosely to his side.

That’s not Marcel, he thinks as it comes closer. He squints at the car. The person driving is too broad, too big for Marcel from what he can see of his build. The sirens turn to blare. That’s not a cop he knows either.

The Montelago police car was a matter of pride in the city, one of few. They weren’t like the cops of Pynchon County with their Crown Victoria’s. Marcel, in particular, was proud of his. He waxed it weekly, worked on it by hand. He wouldn’t trend sand, wouldn’t risk threatening the rims of his car against the well-known dangers of thistle and cactus thorns.

Bertolt feels the adrenaline that had slowed down spike up in him again.                                                                      

The car stops in front of him. Bertolt wonders if he should run when the car clicks open and a man steps out of the car, large, powerful, and broad. Blonde. Familiar.

Bertolt clenches his hand, bites his lip. He swears he can see the heat waves pulse and the sand sizzle underneath, feel the desert throb around him.

He’s here. He’s here. _He’s here._

_Reiner._

His blonde hair is golden in the setting sun, yellow as his eyes. He wears the same black suit he always wears save for the jacket.

Reiner once said that he hated wearing it. It’s too tight around the shoulders. ' _I almost rip out of it when I move my arms_ ,' he would laugh. ' _It’s hard to find someone who gets the measurement right._ '

Maybe the jacket would fit him now. He’s lost some weight, Bert thinks looking at him. It’s subtle, but noticeable. A few pounds off the waist, his cheekbones more sallow. Is it just him?

That’s stupid, he thinks. He’s always stupid. He swallows. His throat aches. He digs his fingers into the meat of hand. He squeezes and his nails dig in, leaving red indents in his palm.

Reiner walks towards him, steps slow and heavy. Reiner is careful. Careful with his men, careful with his life, careful with him.

Bertolt lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He’s solid. He’s real. He’s here.

“Bertolt,” Reiner says, quiet, solemn, the voice he’s been thinking about for months a little husky from smoke.

“Bertolt,” he says again before reaching a strong hand out for him.

His hand cups the base of his skull. His thumb brushes against his cheekbone slowly. Some other day, Bertolt would have leaned into the touch, but all he can do right now is take him in.

How long has he imagined him? For how many days has his presence clung to him and the city and work? The one man who rules everything.

Reiner looks tired. He has dark bags under his eyes. His usually meticulously pressed suit was wrinkled, sleeves pushed up to the forearm.  The tattoo that climbed to his neck showed—peaked, and he smelled like smoke. Stale. He smoked for show, but he smoked the most when he was nervous, when he was scared.

Bertolt tries to say something. He licks his lips, throat suddenly dry and eyes wet. _'I want to run. Running is all I’m ever good at.'_ That’s what he thinks. He scrambles for words, but they don’t come. As always his tongue is useless. He’s a coward.

There’s something unreadable in Reiner’s eyes as they scan over him. He wonders what he sees and if he wondered about him too.

He sniffs. The man who haunts his dreams, both day and night ones, stands before him.

_“Reiner.”_

And Reiner kisses him. He kisses him hard.                                          

It’s more of a bite. There’s too much teeth— forceful, sloppy. Reiner is hurt he knows. He hurts too.

Reiner grips his hair, knuckles white in the black mass, the hand on Bertolt’s jaw squeezing so hard the bone aches. A whine leaves his throat. A light lick of tongue and gentle press of lip, his mouth soft—Bertolt feels himself crying. Reiner always knows what he wants, even if he doesn’t know himself.

Bertolt wants to say he’s sorry, but his sorries mean nothing. I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry for worrying you. I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

“Bunny,” Reiner breathes against his face as he loosens his grip and strokes his hair. There’s a smile on Reiner’s face, white, bright and beautiful.

He opens his mouth to speak.

“Later.” Reiner quiets him.

He moves his thumb to his lip, and then bites into the side of Bertolt’s neck. Bertolt shudders, hot, sweaty, and exhausted against him. His breath hitches as he feels Reiner smile against his collarbone.

 _“Bunny, I missed you”_            

Bertolt Hoover loves a man, a ruthless, dangerous man, in the desert.

 


	2. A Rabbit Among Predators

“Your entire ass hangs out in that uniform.”

Marcel’s mouth is a hardline, his handsome features knitted together, hands tight at ten and two on his steering wheel. This is his cop face as Bertolt has come to know. Marcel, at the age of 26, is perhaps the youngest detective in the city’s history.

This would be an accomplishment anywhere else.

Bertolt looks down at his knees, hands picking at the nylon of his tights.

“I have to wear it for work.”

His work uniform consists of a black bowtie, a black leotard—skin tight, a pair of black fishnets, a set of black bunny ears, and a fluffy bunny tail. Marcel is not happy about this, despite how pleased his patrons are. Sometimes when Bertolt allows himself, he feels annoyed. Marcel is, after all, the one who recommended the job for him in the first place.

Marcel grunts, but his eyes are narrowed.

Bertolt sighs and stares out the window. He’s not exactly happy about it either.

There are perhaps only three jobs in Montelago, all three of which have completely intersected with one another—the cops, the casinos, and the mob, but no one speaks of the last one.

Montelago used to be a mining community, much like Pynchon, but that was before the gamblers and the whores and the mobs came in. After the miners, came the saloons, then the gambling parlors, then the glitzy casinos of today, but the people are all the same, no different from their deviant grandfathers and mothers before them.

The town mayor tries to laugh off the city’s history as a sort of quaint thing and the tourists surely do. “The smallest sin city in the desert” is painted on many a decorative plate and bumper sticker, but the long-time residents know better. Montelago is boring and dangerous.

“If you’re going to stay with that job, then you need to stay safe. Know the patrons, the manager, and the exits. Don’t let anyone give you a drink. The men there are a bunch of perverts.”

“I know.”

Marcel had him map these out within a week of starting. Marcel continues with his rant as they pull up to the parking lot. He takes his hand off the wheel and jabs his finger right at him, the way he would warn the Lime County children about the dangers of drugs.

“It’s not that I don’t think that you can’t take care of yourself, but there are people in those places—bad people who could hurt you.”

Every time Bertolt gets a ride in Marcel’s police car it is more of the same.

_‘Please take care of yourself. If anyone touches you, break their hands. If you need money, I will take you in.’_

“I’m careful. No one bothers me,” he manages as he gets out of the car.

This is a lie for Marcel’s sake.

“I’ll see you after work Marcel. I’ll text you.”

He’s not worth the trouble.

Many bodies go disappearing at the Supreme, but his would not be missed.

* * *

It is hot, the hottest day in recent memory.

It is not so hot that they stop their weekly meetings, but he knows when they talk about this day years later, the weather will be the first thing brought up, rather than the usual list of corpses read in obligation. _Do you remember the weather last October?_ _Do you remember the night Michael died?_

It is a Tuesday. A typical one. Reiner takes a drag from his cigarette. He looks upon his men in his town in his favorite casino.

The Montelago Supreme. It was a purported classy establishment that somehow had sexy bunny waiters, but also 1937 single malt Glenfiddich. The Supreme is old, supposedly as old as the town—basically **_was_ ** the town as far as the early miners were concerned. They would go to whore and drink and gamble their hard earned savings away and more would come for it. Now it serves men like him.

The casino is a contradiction, one that he enjoys greatly. Great booze, great games, great ass.

It is, perhaps, not the best place to do business—he knows this in his heart, but neither is Montelago. This is a shitty city, but it is the only city he has ever fully known since escaping Germany so many years ago. It is home, a desert pearl in a dust ocean.

“Johnny is dead.”

This isn’t surprising. Talkative, young, ambitious, but unwilling to work for it, Johnny was not a man with loyalties. A pity.

“Which Johnny? V or L?” Reiner knows it is V, but asks for pretense.

There are people who mourn him. He is empathetic, but they have a new list of names every week which they read off with varying levels of sobriety. Some on the list are dear. Some are not young. Some are not stupid. There is a certain appearance that must be kept up to feel good about their own humanity, he supposes. If not for 18 year old, mother’s only son Johnny, then for themselves.

This is the way they live. It hits harder when it hits upon someone young, but there is a fragility to youth he’s come to understand now that he is older.  

“V sir.”

“How?” Reiner asks. He takes another long drag from his cigarette, and flicks some of the ash onto the red and gold carpet. Management will bill him. Maybe, maybe not. The AC is frigid on such a hot day. He might consider paying.

“He was captured by Reyes last week sir. Reyes held him up for ransom. For what reason, I don’t know. His mother coughed up what she had. She only had half the money, so she only got half of Johnny.”

He mulls the news over in his mind.

Somewhere out there in Montelago a mother gave all her savings to bury only half of her only son.

“Contact the Mexicans. Tell them I want to make arrangements.”

“Sir?” There is a question in his voice.

This quiets the loud laughs and rumbles of his men. For what reason, he isn’t quite sure. He is not an unreasonable man nor a particularly violent one. He doesn’t like questions regardless. That his men would doubt him and his judgements means their loyalty has wavered.

He grunts.

He knows that Johnny ran around with the Irish and the Mexicans along with him. They knew that too, but he never liked leaving a dumbass kid like him around without some sort of support. He is, not an old man at 32, but he is an experienced man and he has done this for many of the men sitting at the table with him.

“It doesn’t matter if he wasn’t mine.” He puts out his cigarette with an extra twist and crosses his arms. “Know that I would do the same for any of you. Even if you leave. You will not be left alone and neither will your families.”

There is only silence for this proclamation— a moment of respect. They do not have them often, rarely is anyone so dear dead, but he knows that the silence and respect is not for Vitti.

This is why he has them in the palms of his hand, eating from the garish scraps he scavenges for them. He knows that every single man at this table would take a bullet for him, would watch him while he sleeps or would tend to him if he ever gets old.

He grins as wide as he can.

“Rodrigo, tell management I want two bottles of 1937 Glenfiddich. A toast for Johnny.”

The men break their silence. The noise starts up again. And the bright eyes of his men look upon him. A 16,000 dollar scotch on a Tuesday, on the hottest day in recent memory for a no name punk in a shit city like Montelago.

Rodrigo leans forward, cocky, and sure of his position in life. Reiner can tell he assumes that he has favor for the week. He attempts to look cool, but he sounds excited regardless.

“Who do you want to bring it? That Carolina girl has a nice rack.”

Reiner waves his hand. Carolina is a lesbian he knows. Another pity for the night.

“Tell management I want them to surprise me. But they should be young and new and beautiful like Johnny. “

His men cheer and laugh and holler their particular favorite waiter of the week. Carolina, Leonhardt, Ral, Ginn.

It feels good to be loved.

* * *

 

The bunny uniform at the Supreme has been a long standing tradition. It was brought on in the 20’s, a scandal among the better folks and the upper class of Pynchon and Lime County. Busty women on display, legs flaunted. It was to a surprise that no one rioted. This was probably perhaps because they all enjoyed it as well.

In the 1940s, the uniform faded away, but was brought back when the casino found less conservative owners. The man, Gerald Hutchison, had a wife named Bunny. He thought it was cute and squeezed his wife when he wasn’t squeezing waitresses at night.

By the 60s and 70s, the Supreme tightened the outfit, widened and lowered the V, and the stockings became fishnet. In the 80s and 90s, the first men became waiters there. Some complained, but not too loudly. Montelago is a town with many quiet sins and as many equal opportunity perverts.

The history of the Supreme and the costume is something that every waiter has to learn before working there. Management says that it’s to establish the Supreme’s historical importance to the tourists—to imprint that it is a place of class and fine dining among the slot houses and crap shoots, but Bertolt feels that this is something that the owners say to themselves to feel better about themselves.

A casino is still a casino.

He lifts a heavy tray filled with beer and mojitos and juice—a family tray, then walks out past the slot booths to serve the guests. He finishes up with them, a modest tip—mom has manners— before heading back up to Mina.

There are two types of waiters at the Supreme, day and night. He’s here for the pleasure of the night owls—a cocktail waiter. He doesn’t do much in the way of food, sometimes in the morning when the drunks hungover would ask for bacon and other fatty foods, but he is mostly a server of poisons.

His manager says that he has a talent for remembering drinks, but he still struggles with protocol even a month in, stutters around his clients when he’s put up with something new. Talented, but needs too much direction as they said in high school.

“Bertolt.”

Mina gestures to her booth. She is well beloved here—one of the rare bartender waiters and a long time veteran of five years.

“How is the night going for you?”

Mina is cute and friendly in all the right ways. Soft with pigtails which were part of an appeal that many men chased after.

“It’s going well. It’s only an hour in.”

He can’t complain really so early in his shift. Minimum tips, but the families are still in the casinos at this time. The heavier hitters come later after drinks have loosened their wallets and tongues.

“Hmmm. How long have you worked here, Bertl?”

She hums in the way that she does when she takes in a complicated order. Nothing she can’t handle, but Mina often says she likes to think about why. She says that she can tell how sad a man is by his drink or how desperate.

_‘Masculinity is often bought, Bertl. Don’t buy yours or I’ll know. <3’ _

“Why do you ask?”

“I just need to check something.”

Her hip is cocked towards him, hand on her hip. She looks adorable, he knows, but she is aware of this as well as she knows the time he started. She also knows that he dislikes the nickname Bertl. Only two people have ever called him that, one far away and the second close to heart.

“A month.”

“A month, a month, a month.” Like she’s testing it.

“Not a long time at all, is it?” she says before bending over, collecting a key, and opening a drawer. She pulls out two black bottles, red ribbon trimmed.

“Take these two bottles to the blond man over there. The one in the back booth. He special requested these.”

Special request?

“Are you sure you want me to take these Mina?” He can feel his palms begin to sweat a little. It is always cold at the Supreme—the casino meant to be an oasis from the Nevada sun, but it’s easy to build up a sweat, from work among other things.

Mina laughs.

“Don’t take it so seriously Bertl. It’s a one time thing. Although,” she pauses as she says this, taking a look at the bottles before she hands them to him, “1937 Glenfiddich… Braun sure likes to throw his money around.”

Her eyes linger on him a moment, from his sneakers—a rare allowance by management— to the bunny ears on his head. For what reason, he isn’t sure. Whatever she’s looking for, she seems to find. She seems content. Like she is when she’s made a perfect drink—another happy customer.

“Go.”

Mina waves her hand at him.

“Mr. Braun doesn’t like to kept waiting.”

* * *

His men laugh and joke and speak just for the hell of it. The type of noise that the casino resonates—loud, but nothing of substance.

So like them, so like this city. He lights a new cigarette, dropping the old one to the floor. It is easy to be careless on this night. This night of such vulgarity—of violence and wealth and sun.

Everyone has something.

Everyone **_will have_ ** something by the end of the night.

Be it booze or games or ass. This is a night they all deserve, the night that Johnny Viti died.

A toast to Johnny and the youth he will never experience. A toast to family and brothers. To new things to experience in the summer sun.

“Mr. Braun.”

Reiner looks up.

“Your drink.”

The waiter is lean and handsome and young. Slender in a way that hides muscle rather than fragility. His face is long— long nose, hooded eyes— but appealing. His legs are long too, muscled, the type that a man wants wrapped around his waist while he thrusts deep inside.

The waiter opens the bottle in front of him, and pours the drink. Carefully, slow—he bends down when he pours as if it would help his balance.

When the waiter bends over, Reiner can see his nipple, tight, brown, and erect. It is perfect and pert, the type he would spend an afternoon sucking and rolling between his fingers.The top of his uniform is ill-fitted, slightly too large for an otherwise body tight fit. He doubts that anyone has told him that he is on display.

A rabbit among predators.

“Have a drink with us.”

The waiter blinks surprised. His eyes are a soft, muted green, eyelashes curved and soft. They fan against cheek when he looks down.

Reiner will pay for the carpet bill and buy the manager a glass of Glenfiddich.

“Sir?”                                                                            

“Have a drink with us. We’re toasting to the loss of a young friend.”

This is a half-truth. Part for Johnny, but mostly for him, For love, and respect and the city of Montelago that eats people as often as she cradles them in her bosom.

The waiter raises the bottle and puts it back on the tray slowly, then straightens his back. He is tall Reiner thinks, probably taller than he is, but he holds himself as if he were much smaller. Scrunched up as if his presence was a bother.

Timid, timid thing.

An interesting choice.

Usually management chooses a different sort for this type of work. It’s not for the fearful. There are many things that go on behind the slot machines and crap shoots and many people beyond them.

“I’m sorry for your loss sir,” the waiter ultimately decides. He licks his lips as if his mouth is dry. It does nothing but draw attention to his mouth.“But I’m on my shift right now and we are not allowed to drink with patrons.”

We.

Not I.

Not **_me_ **.

The words would be smooth if not for the pause in his voice. Reiner imagines if he said nothing, the waiter would have wrung his hands and spit out more practiced words.

Reiner waves his hand towards the booth. He makes it a point to look at his eyes. The waiter is a nervous person. He is a man unsure, but for all that, he doesn’t flinch.

“If your manager gives you problems, I can talk to him for you.”

“I have other patrons to attend to. We're really not supposed to.”

The waiter gives him a weak smile, the type of quirk of lips that feigns politeness or acknowledgement. It works on most people, but—Reiner grins.

So inexperienced.

“I doubt any are as important as me, right here, right now,” he makes sure to flash him his teeth—charming, but firm,“Sit. Take a drink.”

“We-“

“I’ll be upset if you don’t.”

These are the words that needed to be said. The waiter says nothing and Reiner takes the bottle from his hand—slender and brown, and pours him a shot, generously topped off.

Reiner moves a hand to the small of the waiter’s back.

“I have to go back to work soon,” he protests a little.

Reiner nods as if understanding. He’s not.

Reiner chooses his next words carefully regardless.

“You can leave any time you want, but,” he makes a point to look at the casino, letting the waiter’s eyes follow his own to the red, gold opulence, “you’ll have fun with us I know. It's better than serving people on the clock at least, isn't it?”

“I...I guess.”

“Then sit.”

Reiner guides him slightly towards the table.

The waiter’s ass is supple and round, legs long as the day that Johnny Viti was killed. For all he wants to be ignored, he’s not easy to forget.

Reiner ignores the temptation to touch his ass, to see if it is as firm as it looks. For later tonight.

The waiter’s body presses against Reiner’s side as he pushes past the men and takes an awkward seat next to him. His men throw the waiter a look, but Reiner shrugs and they leave it alone. They know better than to protest. The waiter notices anyway.

He sits knees pressed together, hands clenched, eyes looking straight ahead. He takes as little space as possible, even his elbows tucked in.

Cute, very cute.

Reiner presses his own leg against the long expanse of thigh next to him. It is warm and damp, despite the ac blasting.

The waiter’s green eyes flit down. Reiner can see a bead of sweat drop from his hairline down his face, from nerves or work, he couldn’t say.

Reiner slides a hand underneath the table, brushes it along the waiter’s long perfect thigh to his knee, and squeezes. Half in comfort, half for wanting it. It is a night of many contradictions.

“What’s your name beautiful?”

Everyone want fun.

Everyone wants games.

Everyone, even the mob bosses, and the managers, and the cops, on the hottest day of the year, wants to forget about the stinking torso that is Johnny Viti.


	3. A Rabbit in the Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sexual content at end of chapter, drinking, main character emotionally triggered by past event

****Marcel takes a chug of his lukewarm Bud and slumps in his chair as he flips through the casefile on his desk. Johnny Viti, a useless no life, was cut in half and splattered across a warehouse in S. Mills district downtown.

The work on Viti’s body was sloppy and brutal—as if Johnny was chopped in half when he was still alive. The serrations were jagged and uneven, the intestines cut in partially from the side, hitting his bladder and stomach upwards, missing the lower ribs and grinding through the top rib cage. His remains were pooled in the center of the concrete warehouse floor, dead eyes facing upward, looking at nothing.

He couldn’t have been dead long, in spite of the smell—death and shit—and the blow flies scurrying to lay their eggs. The blood was mostly fresh with bits of bone, white, sprinkled among the red and there were signs of decay on the body—unsurprisingly for this type of heat.

The murder weapon—some sort of chainsaw going by the singe marks on the body—was nowhere in sight.

No trails, no fingerprints, no tags on Viti’s clothes.

Typical.

Viti is the first case of the night shift. It is a Tuesday and it is the hottest night it’s been in years. It’s the type of heat that drives a man to violence, irritating and humid that echoes in white heat—grating, maddening.

It warps people—this heat, this city.

Marcel takes another drink.

Not that these people need an excuse. No, they never need an excuse.

But for all he knows of this city and the people, this work is not familiar.

This is not the work of Braun and his delusional gang of Italio Euro-mutts or the Irish, pure up to five generations. Yakuza, what little remain in the city, stay to themselves, isolated to the borders and the trucking docks. Not even the Mexicans—Norteños from mixed border cities and towns—do work quite like this.

No, this isn’t them, but it’s like them.

Similar brutality.

There is a string of crimes with bodies mangled like Viti’s.

There is a particular case in Reynosa that his co-workers talk about sometimes when they’re chatty and too bored to be smart about who they talk to. Something to puzzle over. A group of ten Norteños were hung across a bridge overpass in broad daylight. There are no leads, despite the mass amount of witnesses. Too scared or too vindicated—he knew it was pointless in trying to get something from the people there.

Marcel flips through the case file again. Too soon to do anything, too late to do anything. He attempts to concentrate on the fan blowing on his face. It’s hot.

Too hot to be working.

He listens to the buzz of his fellow officers. Most are grumbling about the heat, some talking about the weekend—Officer Bossard boasting about getting the number of a certain Ms. Petra Ral; a fake he already knows. The sound of the dispatcher, the shriek of siren, and then the quiet crying of a witness in the closed corner office of Commissioner Yaeger.

He closes the file, goes to the fridge and grabs another beer—a private indulgence, courtesy of the good Commissioner himself. He pops open the can, settles himself into place, and asks himself the question that has plagued him all night.

_“Where’s the lower half of the body?”_

* * *

 " _My name is Bertolt.”_

Reiner takes a lazy shot as he half listens to his men argue among themselves. Reiner’s hand is on the thigh of the waiter, his skin warm to the touch when he brushes his thumb upwards and plucks at the nylon of his tights. His skin is firm and soft, like a fruit, supple.

Bertolt.

He has a name just as sweet.

A name so German, Reiner feels nostalgic.  

"And then she kicks me out of my own apartment. I work day and night—DAY AND NIGHT, LIKE AN ANIMAL— and she throws me! All because I spend a couple of nights out with you guys!” Vicente roars this to the dull amusement of the rest, spittle flying from his thin lips onto the hard oak table.

Vicente is among the younger of the men in their business. Blackhaired, stout, with thick, club like fingers, his too eager participation in business meeting drinks is vulgar, even for Reiner’s lack of caring.

Vulgar is perhaps the best way to describe him: vulgar in speech, appearance, and even in his walk, a short, powerful strut overcompensating for everything else about him. In spite of this, Vicente is not a man without delicacy and Reiner can find a particular beauty in his loyalty and field of work. Vicente is a peasant—bastard Sicilian to a German father, but he becomes a master sculptor with his stainless silver hammer.

"It is a disrespect that you did not call her, Vicente," Guillermo says from his corner, quiet and calm as always—a father long before he ever took his petite wife to bed. Guillermo is middle aged, married, a doctor—full blooded Italian, unlike the rest. Reiner sees the advice for what it is—a little pity, some understanding. Guillermo is the only Italian to follow him from Europe.

This is not something Reiner ever forgets.

"You and Maria have been married since old country. You don't remember what it's like to have urges."

Guillermo smiles wryly. Again the pity. But again for someone who does not deserve it.

“Let him live Guillermo,” Reiner says, “Let a man sow his wild oats. Rita will take his balls soon enough.”

His men roar and goad Vicente—matadors among a dumb, drunk bull, but Vicente laughs when everyone else does. He takes an extra shot of the Glenfiddich, which Reiner feels he deserves. His girlfriend will probably kick him out tonight as well.

“Put a ring on Rita and you will see how quickly she changes. You two have my blessing. I have told you this before," Reiner tells him, had told him at the bright summer wedding of Floramina and Amerigo, heavy with the perfume of wildflowers and the taste of blackberry wine.

Vicente nods “I will. I will” with a big grin and sloppily pours himself another drink.

He will not. Reiner knows this already and takes another drag of his cigarette. He can do nothing about men who do not want to help themselves, nor ones who will not listen. A pity, one of many and endless in this world.  He looks out of the corner of his eye to see how his guest reacts, to any of this if at all.

Bertolt is staring down at the table. He is quiet. Shy, Reiner thinks.

Reiner turns to him and asks him softly in his ear, “What do you think?” The opinions of non-associates do not matter—nor does he think Bertolt personally cares, but he is not rude and Bertolt is a guest that he personally invited. He has a voice at this table, regardless of whether or not he wants it.

Reiner can feel Bertolt’s thigh tense against him. He soothes the muscle with his thumb and he feels a small shiver run through Bertolt’s body. He trails his fingers to his inner thigh with a feather light touch.

He is not normally a man of such indulgences.

“I didn’t really pay attention. I….don’t think my opinion matters much, Mr. Braun.”

Again the timid, green eyes.

Reiner shrugs. “My business partner is raving drunk over his too good for him girlfriend. There are” he makes a point to look towards Vicente, “worse things and opinions that could be said.”

Bertolt’s cheeks turn a noticeable pink. Reiner notices that he has not finished his first shot.

“It...would be rude for me to say anything.”

Obedient.

He smiles at him.

“...Maybe I am a rude person. I would like to hear what you have to say.”

Bertolt eyes widen, looking scandalized. Reiner wants to laugh a little, laugh at the soft rabbit in headlights.

“N-no, you’re not!!” Bertolt scrabbles for words and loses them as quickly as he finds them, “ I-I....I think he should talk to his girlfriend first. He-He doesn’t have to tell her where he is all the time, but…. he should apologize when he gets back home.”

Reiner takes a drag from his cigarette. He smiles, tired, and flicks ash on the table.

"Vicent and Rita have been on and off like this for years. That won’t work for them, but it is not bad advice,” he says.

“More importantly,” he looks down at Bertolt’s full cup and points his cigarette at it. “Do you know how to take a shot?”

The red in Bertolt’s cheeks deepens. Reiner laughs.

“Not much of a drinker?”

“I’m still on my shift, Mr. Braun.”

“You don’t have to be if you don’t want to.” Reiner falls into temptation and squeezes his perfect thigh. “You also don’t have to call me Mr. Braun. My name is Reiner.”

“Reiner,” Bertolt says, quietly.

He does not take a drink.

* * *

 " _To Johnny.”_

_“To Johnny”_

The Supreme is not strict when it comes to their waiters drinking, Mina made him very aware of that after the third time he caught her sipping wine with her blonde girlfriend at the bar; but it is a foolish thing to do.

Mina emphasized that last part. Marcel did as well and yet, Bertolt finds himself taking a shot after the third toast. He fights the urge to cough. It burns and he’s nervous.

He knows he is.

He can feel his heart thud in his chest and sweat drip from his temple as the men, dressed in designer suits, yell and argue and drink to Johnny. There are 10 men at the table, usually a dream for one of the waiters to serve, of middling age from 30-55, and they, for whatever reason, are dangerous.

It is not a question of if, but of actuality.

There is a sense of preservation learned by the residents of the town—desert animals all of them— learned through years of shoot outs, drunks in the back alleys, and children disappearing with mourning parents left behind.

Bertolt shivers a little as he takes a shaky hand to one of the bottles and pours himself a drink. He feels a thumb press against his inner thigh—one of many touches of the evening.

“Don’t be so nervous.”

It was Mr. Braun.

“I-I’m sorry Mr. Braun I-”

He feels himself grip the shot glass in his sweaty hand and it feels as if he could break it in his grip.

“Don’t apologize. I have an idea.” Mr. Braun looks at him with understanding, but he squeezes his thigh under the table with his hot, heavy hand either way.

Mr. Braun makes him nervous too.

“I don’t usually….” He watches one of the men, Vicente he thinks, get up from the table and stagger out, waving a drunk hand with an older gentleman supporting his weight, “do this.”

Bertolt decides to end weakly with that.

Mr. Braun’s eyes follow his gaze. He does not look surprised.

“They’re not so bad after you get used to them. I know my business associates can be a….little intimidating.”

Business?

“Business partners?....Is this a business meeting?”

“Casual drinks with friends from work mostly and,” he looks serious for a moment, “of course for Johnny.” Mr. Braun takes the bottle from him and pours himself another drink.

Bertolt licks his dry lips and looks down at his knees. He fingers the netting of his tights, pulling on it.

Of course.

Johnny.

For all they say his name, they say very little of him. And yet, Bertolt means this when he says it, because despite how out of place he feels at the table, he feels he can be sincere about this: “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Mr. Braun nods and says nothing for a moment, as if thinking and deciding something, then he takes his drink in his hand, and smells it before swirling it around in his glass. He takes a shot and sets the glass down quietly. He looks tired—a lack of sleep, weariness, but his face is unlined and his eyes—brown, the same gold of a lion—are alert. He’s young. Older than him, but much younger than the business suits that grope at the waitresses behind the marble columns.

And … he’s handsome.

Bertolt can’t help but notice that.  

“You don’t need to say anything. You didn’t know him, but … thank you. His family would appreciate that.”

The words are said with care.

Bertolt looks down at his drink, his finger tracing the rim of the glass, dewy with condensation. Despite the price, it still burns when it goes down.

“What... was he like?”

“He was young, not much younger than you probably. He was a real loud mouth and a know-it-all. I took him under my wing. It was probably a mistake to be honest. I did it as a favor to a friend.”

Bertolt nods. He knows the type—ambitious teenagers and foolish older men— who let the casinos entrench them in money pits before burning them out.

“And….if you don’t mind my asking…”

He begins to say, but Mr. Braun interrupts him.

“Yes, I do mind, before you ask.”

Bertolt tenses and a cold rush goes through his body, his strained nerves that much closer to snapping.

“I-I’m sorry!! I didn’t mean to—”

Mr. Braun raises his hand.

“I mind that even more. Funerals are only to make the living feel better about themselves … I don’t need that. But then,” he says this with a laugh,“I’ve been to a lot of funerals.”

Bertolt clenches his fists. He has nothing to say to that. He looks at his drink for a moment and then raises it to his mouth. Just to ease his nerves. He’s not ... he doesn’t know what to do.

“To Johnny?”

Mr. Braun raises his glass at him. He has a wry smile on his face, thin, a little bitter, but his body movement is lazy. Bertolt forces a thin smile to his face.

“To Johnny.”

And he drinks.

* * *

Eventually, they get to the subject of work as so many dull, conversational pieces about nothing lead too, but he’s enjoying himself, despite that. He has his drink and lovely company.

There is not much else a man could want.  

He notices Bertolt fidgets less the longer they talk, the more drinks Bertolt has downed in sloppy, desperate attempts. The muscle under his hand does not twitch and Bertolt’s cheeks stay that youthful, tempting pink. His eyes are still soft and gentle, however, despite the fog of an early buzz.

He assumes that they always will be.

“What do you do?” Bertolt asks him. His voice is quiet and low, but without a slur. It does not have the hesitancy it had a few hours ago.

Reiner swirls the contents of his shot in his glass. He knows already that Bertolt wouldn’t have asked him this if it hadn’t been for the drink. Not many people are blunt enough to ask him about what he does. It is not the concern for non-personnel, nor would he tell them otherwise, but he feels like humoring his guest for the night.

“I am... an importer of women’s fine handbags and shoes—Italian mostly—I still have a fondness for my mother’s home country—and I do some security detail from time to time. Mostly I’m an entrepreneur. I believe in investment and this city has been good to me.”

Bertolt leans in casually, elbow on the table, hand on his chin. His movements are slow. He blinks a few times, those long full eyelashes fluttering against his pink cheeks.

God will Reiner have a night.

“What have you invested in?”

“A few places in town. I have a share in this casino, but mostly people. I believe that people deserve a chance. A humble man can own an empire with the right amount of sacrifice.”

He sees Bertolt’s brow furrow in thought.

“That’s good that you’re able to do that. There … There’s not a lot to do here. Even growing up here.”

Reiner notices something in his eyes, a small glint of sharpness. Reiner feels Bertolt’s knees press together.

“Is that why you’re here?”

Bertolt collects his words. He already knows this by his expression. He has such a readable face—a terrible liar.

“My friend got me a job here...He didn’t...He thought I was going to be a waiter at the hotel. He was so mad when he saw my uniform. I thought he was going to have a hernia. H-He doesn’t like it.”

Reiner takes a fresh cigarette from his carton of Marbolo Reds stashed in jacket pocket. He flicks his lighter open and lights his third cigarette of the night. He inhales deeply.

If this is the way Bertolt would like to play it...

“I like the uniform.”

He says it honestly with no shame.

“Thank you.” Bertolt takes a shot, the glass hiding his face, but Reiner notices that his cheeks darken.

He stares at Bertolt pointedly and his eyes wander from Bertolt’s soft, handsome face to his broad shoulders down to his long, perfect legs. Reiner wants so badly to spread them apart.

“You look very good in it.”

Bertolt looks at him and Reiner meets his gaze. He does not stop until Bertolt looks away, shy and wrings his hands.

Bertolt's cheeks stay red, but he doesn’t tremble.  

* * *

 Bertolt drinks.

He drinks and the night flies. The sounds of slot machines chime in the background, the loud cheers of drunks and gamblers echo over large clamoring crowds. He can hear the quiet heels of waiters pit pat on white marble floors and quiet whispers.

His head feels empty and he feels alone, even with Reiner as they walk around the casino.

“Y-You’re very handsome.” He hears himself say.

“You’re very drunk.”

Marcel tells him he’s very chatty when he’s drunk.

And stupid.

_“My father is German and my mother is Greek. ...I never knew my dad.”_

_“I just went to highschool...I couldn’t afford to go to college. It’s not like there’s anything here anyway.”_

“Mmm.”

Why did he even bring that up? He doesn’t...He tries not to think about that.

Bertolt trips a little. He squeezes Reiner’s bicep (Reiner, that’s what he keeps telling him to call him, _Reiner_. Don’t call him Mr. Braun. Don’t apologize.) , and digs his fingers into the muscle. Reiner wraps his arm around him, around his waist and holds him.  He feels himself lean against Reiner. He can’t remember how many drinks he’s had so far.

It’s been hours, Bertolt thinks. He feels it, rather than knows it. There are no clocks on the walls and they aren’t allowed to have watches on them. His phone is in his locker.

But it really doesn’t matter, does it?

* * *

 The bathroom is pristine white—white marble floors and countertops, delicate porcelain tiles and golden taps with lion’s heads— more expensive than anything he’s ever supposed to touch. Bertolt takes a moment to gather his bearings before Reiner boxes him in against the bathroom wall.

He can feel the heat radiating off Reiner’s body—solid, large—and catches the brief scent of cologne, expensive, musky on his clothes. He fights the urge to bite his lip as Reiner fully presses against him.

Reiner’s breath is hot against his ear.

“Can I?”

Bertolt shudders. He clenches onto the fabric of Reiner’s shoulders. He feels lightheaded, dizzy almost as if his head were completely devoid of thought or weight. He nods, expecting a kiss before feeling lips against the side of his neck and a soft suck, almost teasing.

Oh.

Bertolt digs his fingers into Reiner’s shoulders as the kisses become harder, more urgent. He gasps as Reiner bites down lightly on the side of his shoulder before wetly kissing the brief sting away.

“O-ohh.”

Reiner chuckles against him.

“You’re very sensitive. I haven’t done anything yet.”

“I-I—”

Bertolt stares at him dumbly. Even now, pressed against Reiner with his legs splayed out on either side of Reiner’s hips, he doesn’t know what to do….or feel. But then, when has he ever?

He squints his eyes. Everything is a little blurry. The light is too bright. Fluorescent.  He’s in the men’s bathroom about to do … he doesn’t know what with a man he doesn’t know. This big, powerful man...

Reiner brings his hand up to his jaw and cups his face, Reiner’s thumb stroking his cheekbone down slowly to his lip.

Bertolt doesn’t remember the last time someone touched him. Michael, Mitchell maybe? He just remembers an ache and loneliness.

“Shhhhh. Don’t think so much.”

Reiner kisses him. He kisses him hard, his mouth and tongue overtaking him, the slight stubble of his face scraping against his jaw. Bertolt moans and wraps his arms around his neck. He feels his hips rock against him and Reiner’s cock pressed against his thigh. It feels good.

He feels good.

Reiner presses a lazy kiss on his lips, so slow it makes his legs feel weak. He clenches onto Reiner’s shoulders. He feels overwhelmed almost, and lets out a shuddery breath when Reiner finally breaks away.

Reiner kisses his jaw, the side of his mouth and then starts to tug on the top of his unitard. Reiner pulls down it to the top of his ribcage, exposing his nipples. Reiner stops and then, Bertolt can feel Reiner’s eyes on them, his gold eyes dark. There’s a smug smile on Reiner’s face as he looks at his body.

Bertolt squirms under the gaze, fighting the urge to cover himself. What is there even to look at?

Reiner presses his nipple with his thumb and then circles around the areola before rubbing the nipple itself. Bertolt feels his nipples harden, pucker in the cold air. He whimpers. They’ve always been sensitive. Reiner toys with them, feather light touches, not nearly enough for anything, and gently rubbing the tip. Bertolt bucks his hips and for that, Reiner pinches his nipples. Hard.

“Aahhh!”

Bertolt cries out. Reiner attempts to kiss his mouth, but misses, kissing the side of his lips instead. Reiner’s mouth trails down his body—his neck, collarbone, the top of his pec until Reiner’s mouth is on his nipple.  Reiner sucks on it harshly, worrying it with his tongue, before biting it gently.

Oh God. Bertolt digs his hands into Reiner’s blonde hair as he arches into Reiner’s cruel touch on his nipples. He pants, moans.

Reiner pulls off and blows cool air on the nipple he was sucking on.

He hears a high pitched whine.

“You make such sweet noises.”

Bertolt feels himself tremble a little. What is he doing?

He feels Reiner’s hands move down his body, groping at his thigh. Reiner lets out a low whistle and takes his time staring at him again.  Bertolt wonders how he looks, moaning with his chest exposed, half naked in the men’s bathroom with a large man between his thighs.

He bites his lip.

“Has anyone ever told you your legs are perfect?”

Yes.

Yes, they have.

Bertolt wraps his leg around Reiner’s waist as he feels Reiner lift it up, his cock pressing against Reiner’s. He slowly ruts against him, the pressure in his lower stomach building.

He hasn’t done something like this in a bathroom since highschool.

Back with Jean.

Reiner openly gropes his ass and Bertolt pants against Reiner’s neck.

_Perfect legs. Perfect for running._

He feels sick to the complete pit of his stomach and a coldness spreads down his body to the tips of his fingers. A tingle and a shrinking fear. Emptiness. He remembers another bathroom at another place and time and he freezes. He opens his mouth to speak. His throat is so dry, but he pushes the words out.

“M-My friend is waiting for me.”

That’s true. Marcel. Marcel is waiting for him. It’s late. He’s on his shift. He’s drunk. He’s in a bathroom.

He starts to push against Reiner’s chest and move his leg out of Reiner’s grip.

“What?”

Reiner’s lips are red and swollen. His brow is furrowed.

“My friend. I….I have to go.”

“What’s going o—”

**_“Please.”_ **

Reiner lets go of him and Bertolt struggles to maintain balance. He puts his hand on his knee and pants as he tries to gain his bearings. He’s going to puke.

“I’m s-sorry.”

He doesn’t even really know what he’s apologizing for. It’s just something that keeps spilling out of his mouth. I’m sorry I lead you on? I’m sorry I put you out?

“Didn’t I tell you to stop apologizing for things that aren’t your fault?”

“Sorry…”

He feels like he’s going to tip over.

“Mmm.”

Bertolt feels Reiner’s eyes on him again. Reiner takes a pack of his cigarettes out of coat pocket and takes one out with his thumb and pointer.

“I would offer to help, but I have a feeling I know what the answer to that is. Your friend?”

Bertolt nods. Marcel will come to get him.

Reiner gives him one last kiss on the side of his temple and starts to leave the bathroom.

“Goodnight Bunny.”

Bertolt runs to the toilet and throws up. He pukes until there’s nothing left but acid, tremors, and a loneliness.


	4. A Rabbit in the Sands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated in time for Reibert Week. I've created a tumblr account for my writing if you want to check it out: https://homeagain-writes.tumblr.com/

**Papenburg, Germany—15 years ago**

The sun is a pale, lifeless white as Reiner starts to haul his last few crates—mostly equipment—before lunch. The temperature is as weak as the sun—tepid, but tense with earth and moisture, heavy.

It will rain.

Reiner knows it will rain.

The sailors that ported in town drilled these signs in his head. Do not lose fear of the sea. Learn the water. Learn the color. Learn the signs of wind change and pressure.

Reiner took a look out to the sea this morning, and saw nothing, but an endless expansion of gray-white, waves broken only slightly by brown debris and the corpses of star and jellyfish.

Reiner takes another look out. A scrawny gull chases a fish and screeches loudly. Reiner grunts and winces as the wood of the crate grinds against his red, sore hands,already starting to peel from not leaving them alone last week. He sets the crate down and reaches to grab the cloth his mother packed for him—a luxury laughed at by his fellow seaman—and wraps it around his hand.

_'Just wait until you get salt in your rope burn. We’ll see if you’re any different. You will enjoy pissing in the sea as much as the rest of us.'_

"Reiner, why are you working so hard? Come sit with us,” Thomas tells him, already perched up at the deck of one of the ships, his feet swinging loosely.

“No one is even out here yet,” Nak yells out, “Stop being such a kill joy.”

Reiner picks up the crate again and wipes the mild sweat from his brow.

"Nah. I have to finish up. I want my lunch hour free."

"You just think you're too good to sit with us."

"I'm not pissing in the ocean yet,” he calls out.

They laugh. Of course they do.

He’s not really here to make friends either.

Reiner sees Thomas open up a carton of Lucky Strikes—the preferred cigarettes of poverty and military—and hand one to Nak. Reiner grunts and finishes settling his load before lunch. All the sailors smoke. Mostly to get off the ship for 15 minutes, less for habit or taste. The Navy lets them take breaks to smoke—15 minutes here, 15 minutes there made addicts of lazy men.

Thomas takes his first inhale and chokes on it. Nak laughs, but he can’t handle it any better. Reiner wrinkles his nose.

Gabi will be here.

She always comes bounding down the pier, even when he tells her not to come. Mother couldn’t stop her even when she half heartedly tried. Mom wrings her hands as always and gives him that tired hopeful smile.

_‘She misses you Reiner.’_

“Reiner!!”

He sees her bound down the pier, her face as pink as her dress, a wide smile on her face.

“Gabi,” he calls out and jogs up to meet her.

* * *

 His lunch is composed of two sandwiches, a bottle of water, and a boiled egg with salt. Mom tried to have some variety, for as little as they had. He knows she’s trying.

Gabi took him around to see the tidepools, disappointed by how empty they were, and then a walk around the pier before setting down to the edge to eat lunch. She chews on an apple piece that mom packed specifically for her.

“I didn’t see you again Reiner,” she says between bites.

“What do you mean,” he says, teasing her, “ I’m right here.”

He knows what she means. They both do, despite her age.

“Mmmm, why aren’t you...why are you here, Reiner?" Her feet swing over the pier, the light breeze picking up her pink dress—her Sunday best. She’s not supposed to wear it, but she’s careful, delicate with it in a way that five year olds shouldn’t be. Her hair is in two plaits that mother carefully braided for her. As much as she takes pride in it, he knows she would rather be in her hand me down trousers. She wouldn’t be dressed like that if mom didn’t love seeing her like that so much.

They don’t have money, but Karina Braun’s children will be neat, with clean fingernails.

"I have to work Gabi,” he mumbles between bites. He already knows what she is thinking, her large, green eyes—the only ones in the Braun family—quite clear.

"But,” she picks at the corner of her dress, “ You aren’t in school with me anymore."

"Yeah...." He takes a drink from the bottle. He says nothing for a moment and chews on his food. The clouds have started to shift and the wind is picking up. The scent of the earth and sea is stronger.

Gabi’s face falls, her face scrunching up into a worried pout.

“You’re going to be a doctor right Reiner?”

Reiner puts his bottle down.

No.

Of course not.

But these are the conversations between men that his father has more and more frequently with him.

“C’me here.”

He pulls her into him and buries his face into her neck. She's soft and smells like mom's pastries and sweat. It brings a lump to his throat. "This isn’t for forever Gabi. Don’t worry about me.”

"But you need to be a doctor...”

"Then I’ll be one,” he says between his teeth. He paints a pretty picture for her. “I'm going to have a clinic by the sea side. The salt is good for you, you know?"

He pulls away and brushes her dark hair away from her face. She looks so much like his Aunt Lena right down to the dimpled cheeks. Gabi is young enough to forget her real mom’s face—taken into his family as soon as the funeral was over—but he still remembers what she looked like.

Gabi smiles at him and Reiner gives a small smile in return. He doesn’t have the energy to do so often these days.

He finishes his lunch and packs the rest in the red box she brought to him. He reaches out for her hand.

“It’s time to go. Mom will be worried if I don’t take you back afterwards.”

“I barely got here!!”

“You shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

She pouts at that and Reiner ruffles her hair.

“Reiner noooo!! Mom worked all day on this!”

She escapes his hand and for that, he grins, having played this often enough with her, and grabs her by the armpits and throws her up into the air.

She squeals. Her black pigtails flounce as she reaches for the sky, her cheeks pink with happiness, her green eyes the same color as the sea in a sailor’s dream. Reiner feels a twinge, smiles bright for her, catches and throws her higher in the air.

"Gabi, grab one of the clouds for me!"

“That’s i-impossible!!”

He twirls her around and blows a raspberry into her cheek. She pushes his face and laughs, bright and open.

Go back to school. What a thought.

A few droplets fall from the sky.

The rain begins to fall on the dock, Gabi complains loudly about her dress, “oh no it’s ruined!!” and he runs with her to cover, her tiny hand in his broad one.

What thoughts.

* * *

He was 17 when he, drunk for the first time, went crammed, illegally smuggled, onto a small fishing boat to Japan. He had to further prove himself, despite recommendations—just a boy back then, nowhere near a real man or a made man or whatever shifting goals the conservative Cosa Nostra settled upon for the time. He threw up over the side of the boat, puked most of his guts between Papenburg to Osaka—and they, the sailors, all pitied him.

He sweat and cried and pissed himself and they pitied him.

That headache and the dryness of his mouth back then is similar to what he feels now.  
Reiner grits his teeth at his pounding headache and his case of cottonmouth.

He stares up at the ceiling, not quite ready to get up.

Zeke would frown at him now if he could see him.

He closes his eyes and remembers green ones.

_**Please.** _

_Please._

Please.

His name is Bertolt.

The little rabbit at the Supreme.

It is rare for him to feel pity—pity of all feelings—for someone outside Family. There is honor and traditions that require they comport themselves, but feelings, tenderness if brought up and displayed, is only among Family built up and created over years of blood and business.

But Bunny’s skin (Bunny, Bunny, Bunny, _Bertolt_ that name suits him so much) was so soft, he feels it under his fingertips already.

He feels very old.

He’s never had anyone run off on him before.

 _‘This is why you shouldn’t chase ass, Reiner. A man who chases ass is a man without merit,_ ’ he imagines Guillermo scolding him already.

He wants a cigarette. He sits up and scans his room for his coat. The room is usually impeccably neat—he does not accept anything less, does not accept people in his room, but it is now torn up, sheets everywhere, a bottle of Macallan Lalique on the floor, leaking. He doesn’t see it. It’s somewhere in the mess.

He wanders to his bathroom, brushes his teeth too quickly. He’ll shave later. He has no business today, but business never has any schedule for him does it?

He tugs on his pants from last night and leaves his room to inspect the damage.

Nobody and no body in his penthouse. The room is clean, his paintings—all meticulously lined, and the wall of mirrors down the hall, intact, complete. The light morning sun rises slowly above the skyline, but it’s noisy now. It’s never quiet. There is always the ugly thrum of angry, violent men.

He scans his carpet, hardwood floor, and turkish rugs. He didn’t vomit up on priceless art last night. He shrugs. A normal night, but for pity.

He walks, barefoot to the kitchen—no glass, but his jacket is there, he notes for later. And then he sees it on the counter—Guillermo as dutiful as he is, a doctor willing to play butler—a brown envelope, dark against the white marble. His stomach turns and he wants to vomit. He grits his teeth.

He always knows what it is.

The envelope is old and unopened, returned to sender under the name Raganhar Müller. The contents: a promise and some 5,000 US dollars.

He stares blearily at it.

He reaches down to grab his coat from the floor. He grabs his cigarette and lighter from the coat pocket, more than half the pack gone, and lights one up. Reiner exhales. First smoke of the day, first smoke of a bad hangover—always an experience in of itself.

He smokes and smokes. He thinks about lighting the envelope on fire, but he’s not an irrational man. Not with money. Not with his money.

He thinks about last night and those green eyes. He closes his eyes and takes another drag, barefoot in his kitchen, in last night’s pants.

That waiter had an ass like his sweetest dreams.

* * *

The first stars emerge on the horizon. The first chill of the night has begun, the sky darkening from orange to purple, with only the lights of Montelago ruining the inky darkness.

Bertolt sips on his can of coke as Marcel cracks open a new can of beer, watching the sun go down, taking in the environment. They’re somewhere in between Montelago and Pynchon, right on the border a few miles away from the red mountains. He runs by here when he gets the chance—rare as that is, but he and Marcel haven’t been here together in years. He doubts that they would be here if the circumstances were better.

He finishes his can and picks up his shotgun.

“I’m going to take a shot,” he says, and walks to the remains of an old ranching fence ahead of them. There used to be ranchers out here that came with the miners. Sometimes he runs into cattle bones next to cacti and wonders how long they’ve been out there, bleach white and clean.

Marcel nods and continues to drink his Bud, but Bertolt can still feel his eyes follow him as he puts the can on the fence, carefully avoiding the cacti around them. They didn’t used to be as many, back when they were kids, but they’ve grown considerably. It’s the only thing Montelago has ever been good at growing.

He walks backs and eyes the distance. He’s made longer shots.

Bertolt lifts his Wesson, aims, pulls the trigger, and shoots the Coke can on the fence, directly through the first O of Coca Cola.

“90 feet!! That’s incredible Bertl!!”

Marcel cheers, his half full can of Bud dropping to the sands and spilling out onto the cacti and thistle. Marcel’s eyes light up in a way he hasn’t seen in awhile. Marcel seems to think otherwise, but Bertolt thinks his job is starting to affect his attitude.

Still….he frowns. There was a little too much kick back to the shot for his liking, the rifle messing with his aim, nearly causing the pellet to go through the second c. The gun is too old and he doesn’t have the money to replace it.

He’s not in the mood. He knows that Marcel isn’t in the mood either.

Marcel still slings an arm around him and Bertolt squirms when Marcel ruffles his hair. No matter how long they’ve been friends, he’s not quite used to it.

Marcel’s tone becomes less playful, but he keeps his arm around him.

“You should join us on the squad, Bertolt. We could use people with your type of skill.”

Bertolt bites his lip. It comes up every couple of months or so—when Marcel first joined, when Bertolt got his shitty apartment, when Bert first showed up in the outfit, but there it is again.

_‘ It’s about attitude, not aptitude, Bertolt. This bunch isn’t going to last.’ Marcel looked bored as his new group of trainees failed to follow procedures._

_Bertolt nods like he understands._

But Marcel never understood that, never about him.

“I’m not...cut out to be an officer. I can’t do what you do Marcel.”

“You’re not cut out to be a bunny waiter either, but you’re still working there.”

Marcel’s mouth becomes a firm thin line. He’s not happy. He wasn’t happy about the job before and he’s especially not happy after Tuesday either.

Bertolt flounders. “I need a job Marcel…..You know there’s not much in town for me to do right now….” He brings a hand to his hair and feels himself messing with the fringe. Force of habit. But this entire conversation is a force of habit.

“I can support you. I—”

Bertolt groans in frustration.

“Marcel….”

Marcel slides his arm from around his shoulders and grips it instead.

“You can’t blame me for worrying. You haven’t….You got drunk at work and had sex in a bathroom! ….What am I supposed to think?”

He knows what Marcel is implying.

Bertolt shrugs off his hand, hurt.

“You said that you weren’t going to bring that up again…..It wasn’t like that.”

He backs away from Marcel.

“What was it like then? You have marks all over your neck.”

He got drunk and fooled around? He remembered a bunch of crap from ages ago and freaked out that no one will let him live down?

"What was his name? Can you tell me that at least?"

Marcel looks him straight in the eyes and as always, he averts them.

Reiner.

He lies through his teeth. "I-I didn't catch it….He…..I'm not going to see him again."

He tries to hide his face and takes a drink from the cooler Marcel had brought with him. Full of Bud and coke. Marcel didn’t want him to drink and he stuck by that for the most part. His fingers twitch around the can. He just wants this conversation to be over.

Every time….

Every single time...

“I just want you to be safe.”

Marcel tightens his grip slightly on his shoulder, before letting it go.

“I know…”

That’s why Marcel is always the first person he thinks of when he needs someone. Marcel knows that.

They say nothing for a moment and in these moments, the sun has completely gone down. He takes a deep breath and Marcel takes a drink of his Bud, examining the can. Marcel says nothing and he doesn’t look at him. Bertolt’s grip on the can looses a little and opens his new can of coke, already starting to go warm in his hand.

He waits and nothing is said.

He releases a sigh.

He goes back to work tomorrow. He’ll put on the suit like he does every day and entertain customers, tourists looking for some new petty, distracting thing.

The conversation is over.

He clears his throat and forces himself to speak.

“So….how has work been going for you? You haven’t said much about it...lately.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you later. It’s not...you don’t want to hear about it.” Marcel sighs, looking tired.

Bertolt gestures out to the fence. They’re both people who could use a good distraction.

“Think you make the shot with that Glock of yours?”

Marcel cracks a weak smile.

“Now you’re really trying to deflect. Maybe. I have been practicing. Commissioner Yaeger has been on our asses lately about practice.”

Bertolt senses it coming as fast as it does and Marcel’s hand reaches for his hair again and gives it light ruffle.

“Marcel!!”

Bertolt tries to dodge his hand.

“Don’t be vain.”

Marcel gives his cheek a light pat.

“I’ll hit it at the first ‘U’. Watch an expert at work.” Marcel jogs to put his can on the fence, the last one of the evening, and as he puts the silver can on the post, Bertolt lets his mind wander. Nights out in the desert allow a man’s heart to simmer, to think of the loneliness of his own heart, his placement of life. He’s going to back to work tomorrow. He’s going back to his apartment when Marcel is done, no matter how much he frowns.

He thinks about that mogul, Mr. Braun.

_“Call me Reiner.”_

Reiner.

A sense of embarrassment and regret mix in him, settling down in the pit of his stomach. He might see him again...but then if Reiner is like everyone else, then no, no, he wouldn’t. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved by that or not. He hasn’t been delusional to think men want anything else out of him in a long time.

And Mr. Braun made him nervous.

A gunshot goes off and Bertolt looks back up to the can. The can had fallen to the clay sand floor.

“Damn it! I almost made it!”

Bert looks out and smiles at Marcel.

“You’re too hard with your gun. If you would let me handle it, I could—”

“You know that’s my badge. Nice try. You’ll get your hands on one of these when you join the force. ”

Bertolt smiles at him slightly.

“Okay, square your shoulders up and then ease up on the trigger. We’re not at a range and think about the slight wind…” Bertolt goes on and on.

They try one more attempt and at Marcel’s failure, decide to go back home. Marcel grumbles to himself that he will get it next time, before fiddling with the radio, and complaining about the lack of music on. Bertolt looks out from the police car, resting his head on his forearms, enjoying the wind in his hair and the sounds of traffic and anger from Montelago. He looks at the moon and it is big and young and beautiful.


End file.
